It was in July 2017 that my two-legses committed the unthinkable sin of losing The Ball. Not just any ball… I have many in my toy box… but The Ball. The One. The Special Ball. I’d had that ball a long time and knew its every scent, curve and puncture. Granted, they searched for it diligently. They called in the cavalry so my boy came to help too… they even climbed the fence into the cow field and moved all the undergrowth… they found it not.

I went into mourning while she wrote about it… we all cope with loss in our own way.

It took me a week to have the heart to even look at another ball, but she was starting to panic a bit when I wouldn’t play and all I could do was mope. Not that I really wanted her to feel too much better about the situation… I was still hoping my ball would come back. But there is only so much of ‘worried two-legs’ I can stand, you know? Not that it stopped there. She thought I’d relented and accepted a new Ball when I caught one… but it was just a ball after all… nothing special.

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